Livable--REVIEW IF YOU WANT MORE!
by gymgal1996
Summary: Miah Marcello's application for life with either be accepted or denied, and it's literately the difference between her life and her death. Of course, her best friend Troy will be accepted. He's the most outstanding Orion citizen. But Miah has had slip ups. A few sick days, and that dreaded time she forgot to pick up Brittany Mahoney's pencil.


CHAPTER ONE

* * *

I jolt awake for the third time this week, heart slamming against my chest, trying to claw it's way out. I force it down, again and again, making the beats their normal, even rhythm. The task takes all my effort and by the time I'm calmed down, I'm exhausted all over again.

I will not go back to sleep though. Not when my dreams are filled with endless nightmares of my death. Each day ticks closer to the Application submission. To my possible death.

The lights are bright, way too bright for just walking up, and they blind me. I flick the back off and make my way to the bathroom where I turn that switch on. A dimmer light settles over the room and my pupils are able to adjust.

The girl in the mirror is not me. She has bright green eyes and chocolate covered hair. The button shape of her nose hides a few spotted freckles while her cheeks are a brilliant red instead of their usual pink. Those traits are not what I notice in my reflection.

It is the bags under my eyes, the permanent V shaped crease between my eyebrows, the slight down turn of my lower lip. The girl resembles me but is different and we both know it.

Cool water splashes against my face and I feel my body temperature dip a few degrees. I have learned since the dream not to place my face between the cup my hands make. Then the water will feel freezing. Instead, I do it quickly, the freezing sensation gone before it has time to take affect.

I look at myself one more time before going back to my bed and curling in the covers. They are warm from my body heat and I nuzzle into them, pulling them up to my neck. Having nothing to do with myself is no good. Nothing to do leaves space for thoughts and I cannot think.

So I stroke my knuckles over the bed sheet and see how much I can lift my hand while being able to feel the brush of my hair to the blanket. It tickles.

Thoughts invade my mind absently. I am not strong enough to hold them back. Applications are due in a week. The application that holds my whole life in its manilla arms. Hoe could my whole life boil down to a few sheets of thin paper?

In the nightmares, my applications were always denied and I got sent to the departure center where I'd be shot. The dream ended with a heavy black machine pointing a bullet to the strait of my heart. I heard they actually shot through the head, a quick, painless kill. Not that that could make my nightmares go away. The machines are, literately, killing machines.

I swear against my pillow, mad that my mental strength is not up to par. I count my blinks. _One. Two. Three._ I reach two hundred something before the blinks become more rapid and I fall asleep.

I wake up. I lie there. I listen to the Orion chimes. I sit up. It is the same thing I do everyday and have done since I can remember. Before I didn't think of it as anything but now I feel the days receptiveness. They drag on. Each minute, of each hour, of each day.

But I do it. Slipping on my Orion uniform dedicated for the decible students, I whip my hair up into a tight pony tail that falls down the length of my back in a pin strait dark waterfall. I like it better out of my face.

Every year we get the choice for boots or slip on sneakers. I have always opted for the latter because they do not require extra time to lace them up. In a week, after applications are submitted, I will not have to see the uniform or the shoes again. The thought pleases me.

My uniform is plain white and consists of a long sleeve shirt, jacket, and tight pants for winter. I actually find it comfortable, but I hate white. It is not really a color, not designated to a division job. Only those who haven't had their applications submitted, who haven't been accepted wear white.

Mom and Dad are both sleeping. Their chimes do not go off until later, and then, they will head to their division jobs. If my application is accepted I will be put into a division and be granted the small gift of sleeping in.

Troy is waiting for me outside by the tree that falls between my house and his. We are not neighbors but our houses are only three away, so I can see him as soon as I step outside. A half grin plays out on his face when catches sight of me and I return it. Even though he wears boots, he aways beats me to the tree.

"One of these's days I'm going to get here first, Troy Payson."

He grins, full-dimples. "Not likely, Miah Marcello."

I like to look at him and I wonder if thats weird. The champagne color of his hair falls forward, in front of his eyes, as he tilts his head down. It hides those luminous blue eyes I love. They are not striking, but they are that subtle beauty. He is medium height, only two or so inches above me, and has slim muscles to his build. He is decent looking to most people, but I have known him for so long, and he has brought me such greatmemories, that I find him strikingly beautiful.

I watch his white boots kick a rock and pants hit against the front laces. The pants are the looser, male version. Troy switches between he boot and sneakers each year but this year is boots. If he is accepted, they will no longer have to be white.

Troy pulls on my pony tail, pulling me from my reverie. "Excited? It's the last week."

I don't hesitate to answer. "No." In a week I could be dead, or Troy could be dead, and for a fact, some people I know will be dead.

"Stop worrying, you'll be accepted."

I want to believe him. I really do. But just because I should be accepted, based off what application accessors want, doesn't mean I will be. My parents should help bump up my application. Out of the four divisions, one having the least desired jobs, four reserved for Orion government officials, my parents are on the higher end. My mom is a three, a nurse. My dad, a four. Having parents in higher divisions already lifts my application in the pile of those accepted.

My track record is also practically flawless. That is the main thing the application assessors look for. If you are late to the decible, don't do assignments, get in any sort of argument...It's all recorded in your transgressions folder. I don't believe I have any, except for maybe one when I didn't pick up Brittany Mahoney's pencil in the fourth year. I had felt miserable for months afterwards.

"I know," I say. I realize, I should be the one comforting him. His mom is a three but his dad is a two. Troy doesn't need reassurance though. He will be accepted, without a doubt. Everyone loves him. They can't help it.

We walk up to the decible, side by side, and I see a girl, no more than six, kneeling beside the fence of the preparatory decible. She digs her fingers in the dirt, examining small sticks and whatever else her hands find. Two dark pigtails frame her curious heart shaped face.

_Go inside,_ I tell her in my mind. _Go inside with the other kids and blend in._ She doesn't. I want to go to her because she looks to innocent and my instincts scream for me to protect her little arms and legs. There is no immediate threat, of course, but I still feel on edge.

Troy waves a hand before my face and I jerk back. "Sorry."

"What are you staring at?"

I hurry into the building. "Nothing." _Nothing._ I can't help but wonder if the girl is fated to be denied or get a time slot. It is not good to stand out of the pack.

Troy and I have first period together; Orion history. Ms. Veil commands us to take our seats even though everyone is already waiting for her. Out of all my teacher's she is the one I will miss the least. Those thin white eyebrows permanently slant down on a scowled face and her dark purple uniform, signifying teachers, seems darker than my other instructors. It is her personality which makes me hallucinate the deepened shade. Even now, her lips are pursed tightly together.

"I know you're all excited about the application submissions, however, we have things to review. They may seem easy but I suggest you to take them seriously. Last minute transgression slips can always be submitted." Everyone sits straighter in their chairs. We are all use to threats, but their effect doesn't ware off.

"Who can tell me how Orion came into existence?"

No one can hold back their laughter. The question could be answered by the little pigtailed girl outside. It is that easy.

A girl beside me raises her pale hand. "The cure, invented in 2314, created tension between the countries who wanted the cure for death and those who wanted to destroy it. In 2345, thirty-one years after it's invention, the Cure caused a war that obliterated over half of the human race. To make the cure accessible, rules had to be enforced so the world wouldn't overpopulate. That's how Orion came into existence and its laws concerning the Livable applications."

She recites the words like she's reading from her textbook and I can tell she will be accepted. Ms. Veil gives the small corner of her mouth a twitch or what she probably considers a smile. "Very good Cassidy. Mr. Payson, please tell me about acceptances, denials and time slots."

Troy shifts in his seat. I know from previous occasions, he does not like speaking in public, although, I also know, he will not refuse Ms. Veil. "Well, applications are submitted every year on the first of January. About fifty percent of them will get accepted, and the other fifty will split evenly between time slots and denials."

He sounds more casual than Cassidy, and much more hesitant. Ms. Veil raises a pale blonde eyebrow. "Continue."

"Those whose applications are accepted will be ranked in four divisions. Division one consists of cleaning, cooking, and sewing Orion uniforms. Two; teachers, application assessors, and building workers. Three; nurses, doctors, and and scientists. And four; government officials. Those whose applications are denied will report immediately to the Departure center." Troy tightens his jaw as he speaks. I remember joking with him, saying they should change the name to the Killable center, instead of using a euphemism.

"What are time slots?" Ms. Veil presses him further.

Troy doesn't want to continue. I can tell by the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He does anyway. "Time slots are for those whose applications are not accepted and not denied. They are provided a time in which they can change the application committee's mind by preforming a given task. The majority are still sent to the Departure center when their time is up."

I cringe without meaning to, but his words sound so much like my dream, I can't help my body's reaction. I also can't help another shutter as Ms. Veil turns her attention to me.

"Ms. Marcello, enlighten us on how the cure works please."

I pause because...I have no clue how to answer. I may no about the cure but we have never known how the thing does it's magic and keeps people alive for eternity. Maybe the question is a trick, but I need to answer it. I figure if I list what I know, I might survive.

"The cure prevents all possible sickness and stops aging. Women cannot take it until after they have a child because the cure prevents bodily changes." I sound like a robot and am obviously avoiding the direct question. Others pass me sympathetic looks and I know they do not know the answer either.

Troy comes to my rescue. "The cure does not truly protect anyone from death. Lack of oxygen or severe injuries can still kill a person who had the cure in their system."

A vein jumps in Ms. Veil's neck. She does not like when one student stands up for another. It is considered a sign of defiance. "I do not believe you were asked the question, Mr. Payson."

If Troy is nervous, he doesn't show it. That is even worse since Ms. Veil likes seeing the reaction she gets. Luckily she moves on to other people and I relax through out the rest of the period. That doesn't stop me from hitting Troy when we are out of the classroom, though.

"Ow! Calm down crazy. What did I do this time?"

"Don't jump in for me! You know she hates that."

He smiles, one dimple reveals, and he gives my shoulder a playful nudge. "See you at lunch."

My pink cheeks scrunch in a grin and I watch him walk away. Only for a second because I need to get to Maps on time. There is a zero tolerance policy for being tardy at this stage of the game and I don't want to risk my clean track record.

I find my seat in the very back and wait as students fill in before the chimes. They are not the full chimes of Orion, which play every morning through my ceiling speaker, but the shortened version that is only a few notes. The chimes are everywhere, reminding people to be faithful citizens. Reminding me.

Mr. Giacona sits at the front and only stands when the whole class is quiet. A paper is handed to each on of us. I flip it over and see both sides are blank.

"I'm sure you have figured out from last period, this week we will be reviewing the basics. Your assignment today is to draw a map of Orion. I am not looking for perfection, but you do need all the main buildings labeled."

He leaves us with that and goes back to his desk. I stare at the strands of grey mixed in his dark hair, puzzled by why he took the cure so late. He must be forty in natural years. Normally people take it somewhere in their late twenties to mid thirties. No one wants to look old for the rest of time.

My paper is blank and I don't know where to start. I draw a circle, the edges hitting the top and bottom of the paper, which lays horizontal on my desk. Then I draw a slightly smallest circle inside. _The fortress_, I label it. My pencil makes little dashes, supposed to resemble bricks, so the section appears more like a wall.

I have never been close enough to see the fortress's details, but it's large enough to see from far away. Rough. Grey. Tall. I read in my textbook, seventeen feet. From far away, the wall seems intimidating but not so large. Some people, those who have time slots or get denied, have attempted to escape. From what I know, they've all failed and been shot on sight.

In the middle of the two circles I've already drawn, I draw another, smaller circle. The Livable center. Every road leads back to it. All cure shots are given there and all divisions are welcome.

This brings me to the next four things I draw. Four domes, one for each division. I label them all with large numbers. Once, my mom took me to the division three dome. Her nurses device had beeped while we were walking and she rushed us into the place. I had waited for her in a seat beside the door, watching as the pink and orange uniforms blended into a weird, bright fusion. Even then I wore white, head to toe.

A creak makes me glance up from my half-way-decent drawing and Bentley Reese strides in, his arrogant walk managing to be stern and lazy at the same time.

"Mr. Reese, kind of you to join us."

Bentley smirks, lifting both of his dark eyebrows. They are halfway covered by his ebony hair which looks blacker than black against the white uniform. "Bill," he greets.

Everyone gawks, incredulous that he has used Mr. Giacona's first name. He doesn't even notice our eyes, or ignores them, moving to take his seat diagonal from me. Bentley has a mile thick folder of transgression slips. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

Other kids turn away after a minute, going about drawing. My attention is on Bentley though, and the hand that shifts to his back pocket. The hand that pulls out something shiny.

A knife.


End file.
